The Moriarty Ruse
by 60r3d0m
Summary: The night is different. The nights they spend together, exploring their relationship (which has both of them confused) and sometimes, they wake up in Molly's flat and sometimes it is 221B Baker Street, but wherever it is, no one ever knows (and no one should ever know) and everything is done hush-hush. Two times Molly Hooper saves Sherlock, and one time, she saves herself.
1. Table of Contents

**This is a collection of one-shots so every chapter is its own separate story and is complete. They are not related to each other in anyway and essentially belong in completely different universes from each other. Please refer to the Table of Contents and direct yourself to the appropriate chapter. **

All of these are prompts taken from readers like you. If you would like me to write you a story, tell me your prompt! I post within 36 hours :)

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**TABLE OF CONTENTS**

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**Chapter 1:**

* * *

_Table of Contents_

* * *

**Chapter 2:**

* * *

_"_Let's play a game, Sherlock_," Moriarty breathes. "_Let's play the Molly Hooper game_."_

_It is this text that makes Sherlock go running to his older brother (even though the consulting criminal has yet to make a public appearance in the flesh), and even though he really doesn't want to, it is this text that makes Sherlock beg for something that not even Jim Moriarty would expect._

_"Hide me, and hide her. Hide us all. I just want time. Please, Mycroft. For me."_

_"And alias?"_

_"Wife. Please. I want her to be my wife." **Major Character Death**_

* * *

**Chapter 3**

* * *

_"Pass me the gun, Mr. Holmes. Nice and slow, and then, I'll let her go, and you can sit on the floor, and kneel."_

_It is done, and Sherlock's got her in his arms, wrapping his (ridiculously long and heavy) coat around her naked form, as he crushes her into him, into a desperate embrace that he doesn't want to end, and she never thought would happen (because he doesn't care, right?)._

_"Alright, Mr. Holmes. That's enough public display. Now take a seat. And kneel." **Implied Sexual Coercion (Not explicit)** _

* * *

**Chapter 4**

* * *

_She doesn't move, just sits there looking lost, and again, he acts impulsively, and picks her up in his arms (she doesn't protest), and then before he can process what he's doing, he finds himself under the water with her, washing her hair, washing the grime from three years of living on the streets from her, and he doesn't care if his clothes and her clothes are dripping, because he spends half of the time with his arms wrapped around her, until finally, finally, she returns the embrace, and then they're peeling back their clothes, making their way to bed, exchanging sweet, little (and so very innocent) kisses._

_And then they're lying in each other's arms, and they've done nothing, but they're content, and Sherlock doesn't know why Molly did it or what happened, but she'll tell him. Tell him in time._

* * *

**Chapter 5**

* * *

_The night is different._

_The nights they spend together, exploring their relationship (which has both of them confused) and sometimes, they wake up in Molly's flat and sometimes it is 221B Baker Street, but wherever it is, no one ever knows (and no one should ever know) and everything is done hush-hush._

_The morning that Sherlock wakes up not-a-virgin is the same morning that Molly decides to leave early for work, and it is the same evening that he snogs her thoroughly in front of John Watson (it's not his fault because Sherlock thought that they were alone), and it is the same night that Molly Hooper goes missing._


	2. Let's Play A Game, Sherlock

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

**Note: The theory that Mary Morstan is Moran is not mine. I merely read about it on Tumblr from "wonderlandscars" so all credit is theirs. I suggest you go to their Tumblr and read it there if you get confused in this story.**

* * *

_**"**_**Let's play a game, Sherlock**_**," Moriarty breathes. "**_**Let's play the Molly Hooper game**_**."**_

_**It is this text that makes Sherlock go running to his older brother (even though the consulting criminal has yet to make a public appearance in the flesh), and even though he really doesn't want to, it is this text that makes Sherlock beg for something that not even Jim Moriarty would expect.**_

_**"Hide me, and hide her. Hide us all. I just want time. Please, Mycroft. For me."**_

_**"And alias?"**_

_**"Wife. Please. I want her to be my wife."**_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes sits.

It is silent, and no one dares speak a word, because he's never looked like this, not for a long time, and the last time was when he was falling from a rooftop. The only person who truly saw him like this was Molly Hooper, and that's the way he intends to keep it, because if he doesn't, then John will break, and Mary will burn with them, and Mrs. Hudson will cry, and Mycroft will sigh and Lestrade will rub his hands over his face and ask a question that Sherlock thought Anderson would've asked, except he didn't know how smart Anderson really was, and that leaves him bitter. So fucking bitter.

"I won't let him do it like last time," he says to all these people in his sitting room. It's like a party except it's not. Oh, but it is. A party of worriers. A party of scared people but never, oh, never! cowards. He can bet his life on this fact, but he won't, because he's always scared of dying now, but he won't give anything away.

"Moriarty knows me too well now," he says, "and he knows how much I lov—how much I appreciate you all."

He runs his hands through his hair in frustration, because he almost gave himself away, dammit, but he'll try to calm himself and do it the right way. The rational way.

"There's no corner Moriarty can't reach. He has spies in every corner, criminals lurking under every crevice. But when I face him, I want to do it alone. Truly alone. I need to know that you will all be safe. I can't have...weights on my shoulders."

"No, Sherlock, god, no," John Watson cuts in immediately, and Sherlock can see the fury in his eyes, sort of like the day the consulting detective announced that he wasn't dead, but there's something more to this, and that something is frightening. "You _were_ alone last time. You just don't realize it. I'm not—we're not leaving you alone. Not this time. Not again."

Mary places her hand over her husband's, a gentle restrain to keep the doctor from boxing his friend's ears in, and Sherlock sighs, just as angry.

"But don't you see, John? He wants it _that_ way. It's our game. He didn't like my other player from last time."

Somewhere on his left, he hears her inhale sharply, because Molly knows she is the other player from that day not so long ago, and maybe she fears repercussions just as badly as Sherlock does.

"Well," Lestrade begins, "I don't see why not...you've got Scotland Yard," he pauses and glances up at Mycroft, "and you've got him so...I don't really see how he could get past us. I mean, the probability of that..."

He trails off only to have Mycroft speed ahead.

"Oh, dear brother, it's obvious. Don't be _stupid_. If Mummy could see you now. I will ascertain full protection over your..._friends_, and in return, we can push for a locked room scenario. Of course, we will be watching, and perhaps, we can have snipers on him provided there are no...compromising situations."

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock hisses all too quick and then before his landlady can reprimand him, he shoots her a look, too. And then for good measure, just because it feels right (and yet so wrong now, when he found out his deductions were so very incorrect), he glares at Anderson, too, who blinks once and turns around to face the wall, non-chalant. Lestrade chokes.

He stands up, and takes in a deep breath, triggering a coughing fit when really, he is just ready to deduce something, anything, and then takes another breath just for...just for something, but soon, he finds that he's taking in breath after breath after breath and he can't breathe even though he's gasping, and no, no, no, this can't be what he thinks it is. Not here, not in front of everyone he cares about, because he wants to be invincible in their eyes, an indestructible being, but all he knows is that he's having a panic attack, and he can't calm himself down.

"Sherlock!" he hears John say through this funny haze in his mind palace, and he thinks that he even hears Mycroft sounding worried and confused (but is that possible, because Mycroft is supposed to be the smart one?) as his older brother says, "What's happening to him?"

But then Sherlock Holmes feels arms around him, rubbing soothing circles on his back, and Molly Hooper's voice, as she gently rocks him and says, "Shh. It's alright, Sherlock. You're going to be alright."

And even though any other day, the consulting detective would rather have died than show this vulnerability to all of his friends, he doesn't really care right now, because right now, all he can really see is her, and she is always allowed to see him. _Always_.

* * *

"_Let's play a game, Sherlock_," Moriarty breathes. "_Let's play the Molly Hooper game_."

It is this text that makes Sherlock go running to his older brother (even though the consulting criminal has yet to make a public appearance in the flesh), and even though he really doesn't want to, it is this text that makes Sherlock beg for something that not even Jim Moriarty would expect.

"Hide me, and hide her. Hide us all. I just want time. _Please_, Mycroft. For me."

"You know what he would say." Mycroft stares at him, sternly, morosely.

"You can run," Sherlock mutters, "but you can't hide."

There is silence and then with his oh-so-familiar grave expression cracking every inch of his face, Mycroft, softly, gently asks, "How long?"

"Three months."

"And alias?"

"Wife. Please. I want her to be my wife."

Mycroft Holmes closes his eyes, longer than normal, but not quite a second, and then when he looks up again, he smiles, but it is so sad. So very, very sad.

"Consider it done, brother."

So Sherlock Holmes leaves, and before he runs, he makes one last stop. He says good-bye to John Watson, and then he thanks Mary (but secretly, because no one must know about Mary), and because it is going to be a while before he sees them, and John needs reassurance that it will only be a while, not a permanency.

* * *

"Why are we running away?" she asks, and Sherlock Holmes gives her a bright smile (and maybe, it's a little too bright because she doesn't believe his next words, and never, ever will) as he answers.

"It's all a part of the plan," Sherlock reassures, but Molly purses her lips, and her soul seems to sink a bit because she wishes that he hadn't lied to her.

It is that day that John and Mary Watson are hidden away in Turkey. Lestrade is made into a firefighter in Canada, living with his mother and brother (who really are just Mrs. Hudson and Anderson in disguise). It is that day that Sherlock and Molly turn into Mark and Jacky Schloss and move to the French country side.

"Why are we married?" Molly asks, and twists her ring on her finger, just like she did with that terrible, terrible, good-for-nothing Tom. "We could have been sister and brother."

"Does it bother you?" he asks, and his stomach twists, and he's hoping so hard, so damn, fucking hard that she's happy with this. Happy with this arrangement and he wishes more than anything that she doesn't hate him after the three months are up.

"I just won't expect anything from you," she answers, and walks away swiftly.

* * *

"_Vous avez un bel homme_," says the elderly woman to Molly in admiration at the market that day, as she shops for carrots in France.

And it is because Molly doesn't know any French and is pretending to be a tourist that she doesn't blush at the comment or faint when Sherlock leans over and pecks her on the forehead as he tells the lady, "_Je suis un bel homme parce que j'ai cette belle femme_."

In fact, Molly Hooper frowns as the two people before her chortle, thinking that Sherlock Holmes must surely have insulted the shape of her lips or the size of her breasts.

But it is that night, three weeks after Moriarty's first message, that Sherlock presses his hot lips to her skin and makes her feel wonderful as he says, "She was right. I was ugly before I met you."

* * *

Molly Hooper thinks it is lust, but because she is in her mid-thirties and unmarried (but married, sort of, thanks to the consulting detective), she gives in and lets Sherlock fuck her every night.

Except she doesn't realize that this Holmes man means it, and in his eyes, he's making love from his heart all just for her. Her body is a sanctuary and he really hopes that he can be the same for her, albeit a sanctuary with a hacking cough that hasn't gone away since Moriarty sent his stupid message, because really, that man is a sickness.

"I love you," he manages to tell her one night, when he's too far gone into delirium to take it back and pretend that sentiment is a chemical defect.

At his words, she kisses him harder, and suddenly, they're devouring each other with a new sort of frenzy.

He tells her that he'd marry her, but haha, they're already married (sort of), so would she settle for Mark Schloss for the last two remaining months?

In the back of his mind, he knows that he can't marry her, no matter what, because he wouldn't and couldn't do that to her, when he's leaving in two months, but he gives into sentiment and buys her a ring. A real ring, and not Mark Schloss' because every MI6 agent has worn that one, and he needs to see his ring, the one that he chose for her, so he can forget about Tom, the man Mary shot the night before they left for France (but Molly doesn't know it).

* * *

There are three weeks left, but really, there are only two and a half, because Sherlock is positive that his calculations are so much better than that doctor's, who told him he has lung cancer and is going to die.

And Mycroft knows it. And Mary knows it, and both of them are helping Sherlock create the biggest scheme in a lover's history.

Because Mary Morstan is really the assassin Moran, and her evil ways were changed when John Watson came into the picture. She is smart, and she's good at creating this fake Moriarty that's got the nation worked up, and Mycroft is good at pretending to get himself worked up, because he is the nation. And as Mycroft seems to whole-heartedly be looking out for "Moriarty," Mary is so very clever that she can evade his attempts, even though both of them are working secretly together so it shouldn't really matter, should it? No, they simply need to convince the audience.

And of course, Tom, Molly's ex-boyfriend and now deceased and therefore ex-sniper of Jim Moriarty is gone, too, and even though Sherlock is now a murderer twice over for Charles Augustus Magnussen (and for plotting the murder of stupid Tom), the fake Moriarty ruse is fooling the country so Sherlock can walk free and spend the last three months of his life as he pleases, instead of an unnecessary death sentence that would take six months (but really three, because Sherlock is dying).

It is strange, Sherlock thinks, that as he dies, he want to spend it with Molly, because like he reassured John, he would see him again (in Hell, where Molly wouldn't go, but John would because he hit Sherlock's beautiful nose too many times one day). And of course, Mary had promised she would not tell John the truth and let him believe that the bastard Holmes left the doctor to spend the rest of his days doing who-knows-what (even though it's totally not true). Sherlock craves love, and he knows that it is only this mad scheme that he has been carrying out that let him into Molly's heart so fast, because the one time he tried to ask her out, she didn't really understand that they were on a (solving crimes kind of) date.

In the eyes of all (save for Mycroft and Mary), Sherlock Holmes will be the bastard who ran away to a different country, but is very much still alive (even though he won't be).

So these last two weeks and half, he cherishes every inch of Molly Hooper and binds every molecule of her love to his very body. And then, when he feels himself tire easily, and when the pain starts getting really bad, he falls back into his drug habit for the last few days of his life just so he can spend them effectively with her.

But it is the wrong move, because she finds out (about his drug habit), and cries and screams at him, and he stops taking the drugs just so he can still make love to her, even if the pain kills him every time.

"I...love you, Molly," he gasps as he kisses her fiercely. "Any day that I say that I don't...is a lie."

And he hopes that she remembers these words, because he has only seven days left, and tomorrow he must leave so that he can get away so she doesn't have to see him die. No. She's going to think he's the bastard who ran away.

* * *

He fails.

He fails because his love for Molly Hooper runs too deep.

His plans are simple. Unselfish. He will pretend to run away with another woman (The Woman, because she still owes him for Karachi), so that Molly Hooper's heart will break and she will move on and marry and live the life he wishes that he could have lived with her, his Molly Hooper, his pathologist. After all, he has been so careful, condoms and all, because even though he wants a child, he wouldn't dare burden Molly with a spitting image of himself to haunt the rest of her days, no matter how romantic the idea might seem. He wants her to live, live, live, so why does he fail so miserably?

Maybe it is because he sees the hurt in her face when she comes home to find the Woman and Sherlock chatting in a seductive manner, and he knows immediately that she knows that it's the same woman who he recognized by not-her-face.

Or maybe it is the inexplicable jealousy he feels when Irene Adler saunters up to Molly Hooper and runs her hands over all of his pathologist's intimate parts, purring, "Oh, I think I'm going to have fun with you. Look at that pretty face. Oh, I know what you _like_."

And it's stupid because this is what Sherlock wants, isn't it? He wants her to be happy and to move on.

But it doesn't stop him from snarling, "Don't touch her! Don't you fucking dare, Woman," and he stands in front of her protectively, even though he's so weak that he can barely stand these days and his voice sounds so unlike his own, and that's not just because of his lungs (although he tells Molly that the rasping is due to an allergic reaction).

That night, he spends with Molly Hooper, unable to break her heart by acting cozy with Irene Adler, but in the morning, before Molly wakes, he leaves forever, wishing that she will find someone who somehow (if it is even possible and he really thinks it isn't) will love Molly Hooper more than he ever did.

So he smiles when he dies, and it is lucky that there is no heaven for him to go to and gaze from, for if he could watch over Molly Hooper, his beautiful pathologist, it would only be to learn that she died a lonely, miserable mess.


	3. Pass Me The Gun, Mister Holmes

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

**_"Pass me the gun, Mr. Holmes. Nice and slow, and then, I'll let her go, and you can sit on the floor, and kneel."_**

**_It is done, and Sherlock's got her in his arms, wrapping his (ridiculously long and heavy) coat around her naked form, as he crushes her into him, into a desperate embrace that he doesn't want to end, and she never thought would happen (because he doesn't care, right?)._**

**_"Alright, Mr. Holmes. That's enough public display. Now take a seat. And kneel."_**

* * *

Molly Hooper isn't quite sure why she has agreed to this, but she doesn't really have a reason not to after her engagement broke down, so when Sherlock Holmes asks her to go undercover on a case and pose as his wife, she agrees. He calls it his _Moriarty Ruse_, pretending to love someone like Jim did to Molly, except in this instance, his victim isn't really a victim because he's asked her. She doesn't tell him how much it hurts, that he's named it the Moriarty Ruse, because she knows that the victim that time had been her, too.

"But Sherlock, please don't kiss me on the mouth," Molly tells him beforehand, because she doesn't want her feelings to explode.

"Why ever would I kiss you?" he asks, baffled, as if the idea that he would kiss his fake wife to prove something had never occurred to him.

It does now.

"Ah," he says, uncomfortable and awkward all of a sudden, almost like Molly pre-fall. "Yes, of course. I...ah, right. Let's start then. The game...ah...is..."

"On?" she prompts.

"...Yeah."

* * *

They're in a sophisticated club frequented by the rich. But in reality, it is just a strip club, where cheating men go, or sometimes, husbands with their wives when they're feeling kinky. Sherlock explains to Molly that they are posing as the second couple, here to investigate a questionable man who has committed fifty-six credit card frauds (and fifty-five murders, because the last one got away). Molly doesn't have to ask which crime has interested Sherlock more.

Twenty minutes in, they pretend to flaunt money and stupidity, trying to lure in the con man. After half an hour, Sherlock pulls Molly onto his lap, and unzips her dress until it is almost indecent. Molly stiffens when his hands begin to caress her back, because she's not sure what's changed, except that Sherlock has downed too many shots, and it's worrying her.

When his lips touch her ear, she almost pushes him away, but then Sherlock whispers, his mouth hot against her neck.

"There have been two instances where our con man has gone to loot persons with less money when more suitable and daft patrons were available. What made him decide he wanted two million dollars less those nights?"

"Sherlock," she gasps, as he pulls the zipper of her dress down a bit further.

"Women, Molly," he breathes, and his lips are much too close to her. "He came for the women."

And then just as she thinks he's going to break his promise and bring his mouth to hers, he smirks, because he's right, of course, and the con man has arrived.

"That's a really lovely dress, darling." She hears a voice behind her, as slimy sounding as they come, but she can't see his face because she's sitting on the consulting detective's lap, and he's not turning her around. "But what's it doing on you? This is a strip club, sweetheart."

She can't help but gasp in shock when the conman runs his fingers down her back, and her terrified eyes find Sherlock, whose jaw seems to be clenched. It seems that he didn't think that the con man would be so bold.

"That's my wife," he says through gritted teeth. "She doesn't work here."

"Really?" the con man asks, and she hears him lick his lips. "Who would have thought when you have her here on such a display?"

Sherlock's arms tighten around her waist, and she's so afraid, because the con man is much, much too bold, and goes right back to fondling her.

"Stop," she says, in a voice that's small. It's the voice that she used to use on Sherlock.

And it is then that Sherlock seems to drop any pretences that he might have kept up, because suddenly, he hears that voice, and then thinks of this awful, awful con man, and is left wondering why that voice would be the same for two people that he is sure are so very different.

Unless they're not.

And even though Molly can see that Sherlock thinks it is impossible and improbable, it must be true because it is the only option left, and it makes Sherlock feel ugly to be compared to the con man in his sweet, sweet pathologist's eyes (because Molly seems to think that he would let a man molest her for a case, and right now, he is doing exactly that).

"Get away from her," he snarls, and wraps his arms around her, this time to protectively cover her back from this evil man.

"I don't think so," the idiot says, and he's so bold that it's stupid, because even Molly can feel the rage that is beginning to consume Sherlock Holmes. "I don't think so," the man repeats, and then once again, he says, "I don't think so, Mr. Holmes."

And it is then that the consulting detective's face turns pale as he realizes his mistake too late.

This con man is not an idiot, he realizes, as Molly and him are forced into an elevator at gun point.

* * *

"I'm not stupid," the con man says, after he's got them sitting down in chairs rather pleasantly. The penthouse that they're in is nice, save for the fact that a strip club stirs beneath it. Their hands are unbound and Sherlock is staring at the con man impassively, although his resemblance to a certain cabbie driver doesn't go unnoticed by the consulting detective.

Apparently the con man can read minds because he bares his teeth in a goofy smile and says, "Study in Pink, you're thinking? Uncanny family resemblance. Triplets we were, the lot of us. Isn't that right, Mr. Holmes? Yeah, I read about it. It was interesting. But my brother really never was as smart as me. Besides, he bought into all that rubbish. Family and all. But you and me, we're not like that, are we? We don't do sentiment."

There is a long pause, and Molly can see that Sherlock is already in the process of activating some sort of plan. After a moment, he says, "I do believe you're right, so I cannot fathom why you've got this woman here, too. Why don't you send her down and we can get down to business, shall we? Might I call John? My blogger usually accompanies me on these cases."

The cabbie driver's brother grins, and nods. "Is that right, Mr. Holmes? She_ is_ disposable, isn't she? Let's take care of her right now."

Molly's eyes widen when he points the gun at her head, and she instinctively closes her eyes, because this is the end, she fears, and she doesn't want to know it.

"_No_!"

It's him. Sherlock. His voice comes out strangled, and he sounds out of breath. She opens her eyes, and sees the consulting detective. Sees the entirety of him. His flushed face, the sweat on his forehead, and maybe, she thinks, just maybe she can hear the thundering of his panicked heart.

The con man laughs. Laughs so delightfully, as if he oozes happiness, and then Molly knows. She knows what evil is.

"Knew you'd do that. Stupid, stupid, but I'm not. You think I'd forget about your fall? You think that I didn't see the newspapers, Mr. Holmes? Oh, they were really good. Sherlock Holmes and the pathologist from Bart's. Bet that made you feel really great, seeing that. You've always been a sentimental fool, and now it's going to hurt you.

"Look, Mr. Holmes. I won't do it. I won't kill her. She's cute. My type. But I'm going to make you watch. You're going to see how I make her mine. And after that, I'm going to kill you. Leave you wondering if I killed her right after, or if I kept her for a few more hours. Played. Maybe a day. Maybe a year. Maybe all the rest of her life. And you know what? You'll never know and no one will ever find out."

Sherlock's grinding his teeth together, his jaw working visibly. He's not daring to look at her and Molly wonders if he feels guilty, or if really does care.

And then the con man turns to her, and smiles. His eyes are glinting, a strange shininess to them. They're too moist, and he's enjoying himself too much.

"I'm going to give you a choice, Dr. Hooper. I'm going to let you walk out if you want. You'll get time to run. Or, you're going to give me big, wet kisses and pleasure me. And then I'll let you decide. Who walks out. Although, I think we already know what you want, don't we, Dr. Selfless Hooper?"

He's right, of course. Molly knows her answer. It's always the same. Save Sherlock Holmes.

"Molly," Sherlock says in his warning tone, but she doesn't look at him. She won't do what he says. Not this time. But he almost makes her cave, because he pleads, "Go. Please."

She stands up.

"Right here, sweetheart," the con man says, and pats his lap.

So she sits there, and she'll do this, for Sherlock, but also for herself, because this villain is stupid, and if he thinks that she won't grab the gun and shoot him in the head while he's moaning into her mouth, he is dead wrong.

"Oh, no, Dr. Hooper. We won't have any of that," he says, and when she sits down on his lap, he holds the gun high above his head. "You're not getting it. And you know what? I'm not getting it either. No, our nice, clever Mr. Holmes will get it, while I'm going to have this knife, and it's going to stay pressed right on your pretty neck. He can see if he wants to try killing me when I've got you bucking in my lap."

This can't be happening, Molly thinks to herself, except that it is happening, and Sherlock is sitting there, unbound, free to go but still chained back, and now he has a gun, and he can leave, but even though he's a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath (he's not really, Molly knows), he won't leave her, when she _needs_ him to leave.

"It's hard, isn't it, the moral dilemma?" The con man asks, smiling in that creepy, creepy way, as his hands run down Molly's dress (again!), and he's unzipping it. "You could leave, Mr. Holmes, except that you won't. You could overpower me, but you won't, because she's going to be shot instead. Oh, yes, I _promise_ it'll be her. Not me. Or you could try to manhandle me, but this knife that I've got here, see it? It's very sharp. And in the end, you know, it doesn't matter. Because I'm going to take that gun back from you, and she's going to tell you to leave, and you'll have to, but not before you hear the sound of brains splatter the carpet. Now," he pauses, "kiss me, doctor."

* * *

Sherlock burns inside.

Because she's doing it all for him again, and he's sitting here, watching, and for once, he doesn't know anything, except that he loves her, and he's been keeping it secret for much too long.

So when the con man pulls down her dress, and leaves her in her bra, he feels anger, but also helplessness, and this awful man's hands, who are caressing the soft skin of her back (Sherlock's always wanted to do that, and not just for a case), burn searing holes into his very vision.

He sees her press her mouth to that dirty man, sees her whole body reel with disgust when the monster lets out an exaggerated moan, and when he uses the knife at her throat and moves it to trail down her back, Sherlock screams curses when he sees the blood drip to the floor.

"Come on, Mr. Holmes. I dare you. Try to overpower me," the man taunts, just as he makes her step out of her dress, her bra, her underwear.

He hears her cry, and tells her, right there, and then, because he can't stop himself, and he wants her to know how brave she is.

"I love you," he croaks, and he doesn't care if he's just given this con man more emotional ammunition, because Sherlock is determined, and somehow, he will get her out.

And then it occurs to him.

"Please," he says suddenly. "I have an offer...a proposition."

The con man crooks his neck, and considers him. "What could you possibly give me, Mr. Holmes?" he asks.

"Me," Sherlock says, and his voice is unwavering. "Allow me...to pleasure you. I'm...untouched. It would make you a winner...to," he pauses, and swallows hard before continuing, "to degrade me."

He can tell right away that it has worked, because the man's eyes brighten, as if he's found the solution to a very hard problem.

"On your knees then," the monster says, and he is grinning.

"No, Sherlock," she says (because of course, she's going to say it, like she always does, and he will ignore her, like he always has).

"Pass me the gun, Mr. Holmes. Nice and slow, and then, I'll let her go, and you can sit on the floor, and kneel."

It is done, and Sherlock's got her in his arms, wrapping his (ridiculously long and heavy) coat around her naked form, as he crushes her into him, into a desperate embrace that he doesn't want to end, and she never thought would happen (because he doesn't care, right?).

"Alright, Mr. Holmes. That's enough public display. Now take a seat. And _kneel_."

So Sherlock Holmes does it, and drops to his knees, while the con man passes the gun to Molly Hooper with a smile (because she's too pathetic to try to fire a weapon, the monster thinks), and Sherlock bends his head, feels the knife that cut Molly dig into his own neck now, and thinks, if only Mycroft could see him now, because he'd be laughing at him (or maybe crying).

When the consulting detective closes his eyes, he feels like a child, and his brain is dead. _So_ dead.

So dead that when Molly shoots the con man in the head, his brain doesn't even register it for a few moments, before he realizes that both men underestimated Molly Hooper.

They thought that she didn't have the guts to use the gun. Not with a knife pressed to Sherlock's neck.

But they forgot, too.

Forgot that they were dealing with a doctor who just knows so much better than that, who knows no one's going to have time to slit a throat when a bullet rips through their head.

"Molly," he breathes, and everything is okay. Like always.


	4. She Doesn't Move

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

**A/N: Someone gave me a prompt about how they wanted to see a story where Molly is a part of the Homeless Network. I interpreted it a little differently, but Molly is indeed homeless in this one. I really had fun writing this, and it was starting to get really long, so I ended it early. Got a prompt? Please let me know! **

* * *

_**She doesn't move, just sits there looking lost, and again, he acts impulsively, and picks her up in his arms (she doesn't protest), and then before he can process what he's doing, he finds himself under the water with her, washing her hair, washing the grime from three years of living on the streets from her, and he doesn't care if his clothes and her clothes are dripping, because he spends half of the time with his arms wrapped around her, until finally, finally, she returns the embrace, and then they're peeling back their clothes, making their way to bed, exchanging sweet, little (and so very innocent) kisses.**_

_**And then they're lying in each other's arms, and they've done nothing, but they're content, and Sherlock doesn't know why Molly did it or what happened, but she'll tell him. Tell him in time**_

* * *

"He's going to hate you, you know. Two years you lied to John Watson and then you left again for four more. Not a word of good-bye, Sherlock. Do you really think that you can waltz back in?"

Sherlock Holmes says nothing, because it's true, what he did, and he knows that he's going to be hated, but he couldn't bear it anymore. John and Mary, more and more domestic by the day, and then, the child, the infant daughter that effectively put an end to the Holmes and Watson partnership (even though secretly he doted on John's daughter more than any other person in her life). And then...her. Her with her Tom. An engagement that stayed broken for no more than three weeks, and then after make-up sex (she told him, and it hurt so, so much), the two were as thick as blood (or thick as thieves, Sherlock realizes, but he doesn't really care for nonsensical expressions. Blood just makes so much more sense).

He won't tell anyone, but he came for her, because just seeing her face for the rest of his life is infinitely better than not seeing her face at all.

"He'll get over it," he says mildly, uncaringly, but he knows, somewhere inside his stomach that tells him so, that it might not be alright this time.

"I will arrange for a car then," Mycroft responds, in his usual imperious manner. "Obviously not Baker Street. You promised me that you were leaving England permanently. Mrs. Hudson rented out the flat to that Anderson's _Empty Hearse_, but I daresay after they realized that you abandoned them once more, they were not so keen to keep it. John Watson wouldn't step foot into it. It now belongs to the _Moriarty Ruse_. A relatively new club started in opposition to the _Empty Hearse_. They've been tearing apart the floorboards hoping to find evidence that you faked it all.

"Nevertheless," Mycroft adds, "I have arranged for a new flat, quite close to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, your home away from home." He sneers, but evidently, he's missed his brother, and his attempts at disdain are only half-hearted. "Naturally, I can reacquire 221b should you wish it, but perhaps a chat with your former landlady may be helpful in ascertaining the..._emotional_ situation."

"That will be unnecessary. Have me driven to Bart's."

Mycroft smiles, but there is something off about it.

* * *

He hovers by the door.

Will she hate him? he wonders. Or will she cry? Or...has she forgotten him in favour of another man, who lies in bed next to her every night, and shows more care and compassion than he ever did (but never as much as Sherlock felt for her)?

He feels sickened, but he can't keep up this pretence any longer. He won't burst through the doors as if he was here only yesterday. What a lie it would be.

So he takes a deep breath, and lets it out, closes his eyes, and slowly slips in.

She's not there.

* * *

They tell him that she doesn't work here anymore. Left three years ago without even a letter of resignation, and that her husband looked for days and days, and Scotland Yard looked, and that Tom cried, and everybody cried, and now they hold a candlelight vigil on the night that somebody stole her away. He feels empty.

"Where?" he rasps into the telephone, and he's trying hard not to cry (because crying is something that he learned to do in these four years, and he's more human now than even the rest of them). "Why? You had protection on her, Mycroft. So tell me why."

"Sherlock," he responds, solemnly, and it is in a voice that could (almost) be mourning. "You said that you were leaving forever, brother. I had the guards lifted save for the Watson family, to whom, it is in my understanding, that you made some sort of vow. But you are aware that these protective measures require money. The cost-effectiveness of the situation...it was simply not feasible any longer. You can understand that—"

"_YOU KILLED HER_!" he screams, because now, out of nowhere, all the anger that he has repressed for his brother throughout these years comes out in a boiling mass of fury. He wants him, Mycroft, and he wants his hands around his brother's neck until he hears him beg for his life. Murder, that is what calls to him now. And he wants Molly Hooper, so, so badly, but he can't have her anymore, so all he can do it pound his fists on the telephone booth, and try to contain his tears, but, no, no, no, it is too late, and they're coming down, hot and heavy, and people are staring through the windows, wondering if they should be calling the police.

"They never found a body," Mycroft says softly, and he's telling him, he knows, to do some solving, but he can't. Not without her. Not anymore.

* * *

He wastes six months. Six months where he cries a lot, and John has to drag him every night from a new and dirty hole, where he's been shooting up, up, up (but really, he only goes down, down, down).

John never reprimands him, when he shows up at their door four years later, because he's crying, and his fingers are bleeding from destroying the telephone booth, and Lestrade doesn't shout, because he's the one who brings him to the Watson's, after Sherlock Holmes is arrested (at the telephone booth) for suspicious behaviour and dangerous intentions, and Mrs. Hudson, oh that Mrs. Hudson, comes over, and cradles his head into her lap, kisses his forehead, plays Mummy (because Mummy died two years earlier), and she coos, "Oh, Sherlock!" but nothing, still nothing, is okay.

One night, he comes to his senses, and it is Anderson who brings him there, to that thing that he hasn't used for a while. Mind Palace, Anderson calls it, and Sherlock nods, dazed, because he's drugged himself again, and he's lying on John's couch (handcuffed to a doorknob because Mary won't let her daughter see her godfather like this).

"Don't you see, Sherlock?" Anderson says, eagerly, excitedly. "The crew and I've been going around, to your homeless network. There's a girl who says she knows a woman who's a pathologist. How many female pathologists stick around London?"

And then, Sherlock Holmes, is alert. More alert than he's ever been, and somewhere in his mind, he envisions going through a drawer (Mycroft's, and by extension, the British Intelligence Services') and he pulls out a folder. It's labelled Statistics. Three female pathologists in the whole of the United Kingdom, and one of them is "Molly Hooper," he mutters, and he's pulled on his coat (the one that he hasn't worn for a while), and he's off, off into the night like a long time ago, still a little drugged, but a bit more good.

Every night, and all night, and everyday and all day, he lurks in the places that no one wants to go, and talks and talks, to the people. The homeless. His homeless.

"Dunno," Wiggins says, scratching his head. "I think I mighta seen 'er. She was the slapper, wasn't she, Mistah 'Olmes? I liked 'er. Saw 'er giving me the looks, yeh know, that day they made yeh use the piss pot? Fell in love, I did. Started beggin' near Bart's and she always gave me somethin'. 'Twas love at first sight. Woulda married 'er if I had the chance. 'Cept I never have a chance. Ain't that a thing, Mistah 'Olmes? Oh, I don't think nothing like that, Mistah 'Olmes! I know, I know! She's yours! Promise! I...oy! What was that for?"

And sometimes, sometimes, Sherlock Holmes finds his fists flying, and he's not even sure why.

* * *

Whispers, whispers fly and slither through his network.

"He's looking for His Woman," one mutters.

"_The_ Woman?"

"No, no. Not that one. _His_ Woman."

Constantly, constantly, Sherlock searches. He will find her. He promises. He will bring Molly Hooper home.

"Seen His Pathologist 'round?"

"Who's askin'?"

"Don't got no particulars for yeh, but let's just say _He's_ back in town."

"He's lookin' for His Mouse?"

"Yeah, yeah. You got any infos? Oh, well, hey there! Don't yeh look mighty fine, Priya."

"I thought that I heard that Sherlock's looking for His Girl?"

"Yeah, yeah. You got any infos? And uh, maybe if yer free later, I was wonderin', I was wonderin' if yeh might wanna go beg at Trafalgar with me?"

"Robert, if it didn't work the first time, it's not going to work the fifty-sixth time."

* * *

It is one month later, after he has scoured and scoured the streets (and boxed Wiggin's ears perhaps a thousand times), that he sees her.

A young girl, eight years old, playing around a makeshift hut of cardboard. Kittens, everywhere, and Daily Mails, as makeshift litter boxes, a girl that he has never seen before. A new homeless. A new connection in his network to be made. And he knows, right then, that this is the girl that Anderson found.

He approaches her, slowly, smiles, genuinely, pulls off his coat and lays it over her shoulders. Wraps his scarf around her neck.

"Take it. You're going to be cold."

Instant trust. That's what forms. Sherlock knows it. The coat is always the biggest prize.

But no, this girl is smart. She doesn't trust him. She knows the streets. Three to four years at least. Run away from home at age five, and somehow, still alive.

The young girl looks up, smiles tentatively, but backs away, heading to her hut. There must be someone in there, who keeps her safe.

"What's your name?" he asks, and makes his voice deliberately soft. He thinks of Molly. He thinks of how he'd talk to her.

"Sweetheart. That's what Jacky calls me. Sometimes Honey. Sometimes Darling. But I like Sweetheart the best."

He laughs, knows that his eyes crinkle this way, and make him look more caring. "What's your real name?"

She hesitates, for a moment, but only a moment. "Liu Wen."

"Sweetheart, you look clever. Would you like to join a special club?"

"No."

He's taken aback, but then he realizes what it might sound like, and composes his features into kinder ways, a little bit of Mummy.

"Not that kind of club," he says softly. "I call it the Homeless Network. It's simple. All you have to do is tell me if you see some people, when I'm looking, and in turn, I'll take care of you. You've must have heard about it. Many of your friends, I'm sure, are in it."

"I'm not allowed."

"Why? It's to your benefit."

"But Jacky says..."

"Yes?" he breathes, and his eyes dart to the hut once again, and his hands itch. He wants so much to turn the feeble structure over, to see who is inside, because he knows, he just knows, he's found her. He's found his Molly.

"Jacky says that we have enough money. She was a...a pathogen before, she said."

"A pathologist? Was she now?" he says, and he's trembling. He can't stop now. He walks to the hut. Drops to his knees. Is ready to crawl into that hole, and then embrace her, because he's so sure. She has to be there. She has to be.

"You can't go in there!" he hears Sweetheart shout. "She's scared of strangers. The sun hurts her eyes."

But no, he's not listening. He's crawling, and crawling in, and then when he sees Jacky, he screams.

Because Jacky is a dolly, and he still doesn't have Molly.

* * *

He wanders the alleys now. There is no rhyme or reason to his actions. Sometimes, he wants to intoxicate himself, drown in highs, but he can't bring himself to do it anymore.

He only wanders.

This night, he finds himself back at the source of his last hope, back at the hut with the kittens and the girl and the doll.

He stands in front of the entrance, doesn't even know what he's doing, doesn't care that he probably looks like a rapist right now. Once again, he drops to his knees, wipes his hands over his face, determines that he's crying (again), and he listens to the sounds of his sobs fill his ears.

And then he jolts.

These sobs are not his own. These sobs are of a woman.

He tears into the hut, and there she is, Molly, his Molly, huddled in a corner wearing tatters, eyes red from tears, and she sees him, sees his own tears, and her voice is dull when she says, "Sherlock."

"Molly..."

Molly. Molly. Molly.

And he's confused, so confused (and so broken) because he doesn't know why she hid from him that day that he came to the tent, and because she must have escaped discreetly, leaving the doll to fool him, which somehow did, but now he doesn't know why it did, because he can see the hole in the alley wall so clearly now, where she must've crawled through last time.

"Why?" he gasps, and lunges forward, because he can't stop himself, and wraps his arms around her, breathes in her scent as he presses his forehead to ears. "Why did you leave me?"

But she doesn't tell him, and she doesn't tear away from his grip either. For the first time, Sherlock has an opposite played on him, because she doesn't return the embrace, just like he never used to return anybody's else's.

"Sweetheart," she says. "She didn't come home last night."

* * *

It's a simple crime, Sherlock can tell, after Molly and him find Sweetheart's body. A sexual assault, and then murder, but that doesn't stop Molly from screaming into the night, wailing and wailing in pain, and finally, Sherlock has to cover her mouth with his hand to muffle the sounds (he doesn't need the police. Not yet. Not until he brings her home). Quick, swift taps on his phone brings five of his homeless network to him, and they arrange for a commotion to be made as soon as Molly and Sherlock are out of sight.

That's 'er, ain't it, Mistah 'Olmes," Wiggins says in awe, and he's staring at Molly, wistfully, unashamedly, and he walks over. "I can take 'er home, Mistah 'Olmes, while yeh wrap up 'ere. I'll take good care of 'er, I promise, and—OW!"

It's not just that Sherlock is never going to let her out of his sight ever again, but he sees how Molly's face, past the grief, softens when she looks at Wiggins, and it's impulsive, this sudden jealousy, and he boxes Wiggins' ears before he can stop himself.

"I ain't ever gonna be hearin' again!" Wiggins hollers, collapsing dramatically to the ground. "'E's done it! I'm deaf! I'm a goner!"

So as Sherlock attempts to steer Molly away from this horrible place, he freezes when she says, "I want him to take me home."

"What?" he blurts, so unlike himself, so undignified. Surely, she can't? Not her, not with _Wiggins_?

"My flat," he says, and it's taking all of his will power to agree. "That's the only place that I'll let him take you."

And she nods, while Wiggins, apparently with his hearing miraculously restored, jumps to his feet, eager, grinning, and offers his arm. "I'll escort you like a proper lady, doctor."

And then, she's walking away from him again, and he almost runs after her, if only to correct the placement of Wiggins' hand, which dips far too low on her waist for his comfort.

* * *

When he reaches his flat, he slips in quietly, and it is to see Wiggins kneeling, Molly on the sofa, while Wiggins is smiling nervously and stuttering, "I was wonderin', if...if yeh might...might do me the 'onour of...becomin' my...my...well, I don't have much, but I—"

"WIGGENS!" Sherlock roars, because he can't take this, not this form of betrayal, and because, even though this is all so stupid, he's afraid. So very afraid.

Wiggins scuttles, terrified, and babbles, "See! I told yeh! I told yeh he's crazy! He calls you _His_ Woman! _His_ Doctor! _His_ Patho...patho-something! Awfully possessive, if yeh ask me! Well, maybe not, 'cause he did let yeh engage with the Tom. Spent a week in my den, actually, drunk off his feet. Cried a lot, too. Then he left London, so I guess not really possessive, but he's sensitive, our Mistah 'Olmes, and..."

But Wiggins sees the dangerous look on Sherlock Holmes' face, and decides that at that very moment, he'd rather risk jumping out the window than face the consulting detective, so he does exactly that, and he's gone.

Molly laughs, but it's not a real laugh. It's a sad, sad, disbelieving laugh.

"I apologize that you had to put up with that. Don't believe what he says. He likes to exaggerate the truth," Sherlock says, dismissively, except that his tone betrays him.

"Truth, Sherlock?" she breathes. "What truth is there to that?"

He stands there, at a loss, and doesn't know what to say (because he gave himself away, and she saw his mistake, and he's not sure if he really cares).

"I assume that you'd want a bath," he mumbles, and he wonders why he's saying these things, because they're definitely not the things that he wants to say. "The bathroom's that way."

She doesn't move, just sits there looking lost, and again, he acts impulsively, and picks her up in his arms (she doesn't protest), and then before he can process what he's doing, he finds himself under the water with her, washing her hair, washing the grime from three years of living on the streets from her, and he doesn't care if his clothes and her clothes are dripping, because he spends half of the time with his arms wrapped around her, until finally, finally, she returns the embrace, and then they're peeling back their clothes, making their way to bed, exchanging sweet, little (and so very innocent) kisses.

And then they're lying in each other's arms, and they've done nothing, but they're content, and Sherlock doesn't know why Molly did it or what happened, but she'll tell him. Tell him in time.

* * *

**I would really love it if you guy would take the time to review. I appreciate the feedback that I get immensely, and I hope you guys enjoyed it. I look forward to doing more prompts! :]**


	5. The Night Is Different

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

**A/N: I got a request to see a jealous Molly. Another person asked me to have a Molly who gets captured but reacts sensibly and calls for help before anything serious gets underway. I'm afraid I have to apologize to CloudCuckooLandHasAQueen because I completely forgot about one of your conditions before I finished writing it (that the kidnapper should not be related to Molly or Sherlock in anyway). Thus, I extended this one-shoot to include a part where Molly saves Sherlock from a deranged fan to make it up to you :) I decided to combine the two prompts although I think jealous Sherlock trumped the amount of jealous Molly in here. Haha. Enjoy! :) It's nothing too angsty.**

* * *

Two times, Molly Hooper saves Sherlock Holmes. One time, she saves herself.

* * *

"What are you doing?" he hisses.

"I'm taking a seat, Mr. Holmes, even if it's in your lap. You've taken my favourite chair, you see. I couldn't resist coming here to see you, not after reading about that delicious case that your blogger wrote. 'The Moriarty Ruse' he called it."

Irene Adler shifts in Sherlock Holmes' lap, deliberately brushing her body against his, as she runs her fingers through his hair. Sherlock can feel her other hand trailing down his chest, getting closer and closer to his groin. He barely suppresses a shiver. He doesn't understand what the dominatrix is doing here in Bart's morgue, dressed in a lab coat. It smells faintly of Molly Hooper (and he's been thinking about his pathologist a lot more lately) but the longer he breathes, the more he takes in the heavy, perfumed scent that is uniquely Irene.

"You shouldn't be here. Did I risk my life in Karachi for nothing?" he asks, disapproving in his tone.

"Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. I have every right to be here. I'm the pathologist's new assistant," she replies, and smiles seductively.

"And I do wonder what Molly will think when she finds her new assistant sitting in a man's lap instead of doing the work that she has been employed for."

"Oh, I did miss you," she breathes, close to his lips, tickling them. She moves forward and Sherlock's turns his cheek so that her lips fall there rather than her intended spot. It is just as well because he hears someone clear their throat and of course, it's her. Molly Hooper.

Irene giggles, a fake laugh, and then, with an American accent and a much higher voice (and he wonders if this is her real voice, because he knows that she really is American, no matter how hard she tries to hide it), she jumps off his lap and says, "Oops! Sorry, Dr. Hooper. I'll be getting back to work now."

When the dominatrix vanishes from sight, Sherlock turns to Molly, who looks stiff and asks, "Was that your girlfriend?"

"Don't be silly, Molly. Of course not. Don't jump to illogical conclusions without evidence."

"Okay," the pathologist answers, and without meeting his eyes, leans over and wipes the red lipstick off his cheek.

Sherlock Holmes' face burns. They don't talk for a week.

* * *

He doesn't know what his dynamic with his pathologist is anymore, not after his fall, and certainly not now that she is single again, but he is aware that he always finds himself calling her 'his'.

John sees it, Sherlock thinks, because sometimes, the consulting detective lets something slip, and John will grin and smirk and chatter incessantly about his interactions with Molly afterward, until Sherlock feigns being deaf because he can't take anymore suggestions for baby names.

The first time it happens is when Sherlock solves a case that has been puzzling him for hours. It is Molly who first realizes that they have been observing the wrong part of the corpse's body (it was the eyes! he exclaims later) and then, he is so caught up in his excitement that he kisses her on the cheek and says (before he can take it back), "What would I do without my pathologist?" and then of course, John smiles and nods his head, but there's a knowing look in his eyes, and afterwards, he pries, "Molly sure looked lovely today, don't you think?"

And because Sherlock doesn't know what John means by it the first time, he finds himself retorting (rather fiercely), "Please, John. You have a wife. Keep your wandering eyes away from my pathologist."

The doctor chuckles and it takes Sherlock three days to realize why.

* * *

Irene Adler becomes a strange fixture in the morgue and Mycroft does nothing, so Sherlock begins to investigate for ulterior motives. John is shocked (because she's supposed to be dead but isn't). Molly Hooper is kept ignorant and when John almost informs her, Sherlock shuts him down because he doesn't want her to know (and he's not sure why but he intends to keep it that way).

"Not a word, John."

It is the first time that Molly speaks to him after the lipstick incident and he's been wondering why they haven't spoken after that. John mutters something about jealousy and that it has to do with sentiment, so Sherlock tries to forget it and move on.

He learns about jealousy that day.

"She's pretty, that doctor," Irene purrs into his ear. "Oh, the things that I could do to her. I've always loved playing doctor. I want to find out what she likes. I wonder if she'll let me play doctor on her."

So Sherlock learns what jealousy is, because he doesn't like the way the Woman's hands trail over Molly's shoulders, lingering and caressing (and he can see that Molly is startled, because this is odd behaviour from her assistant).

That day he kisses her on the temple in front of John and the Woman (even though he really shouldn't do anything of the sort in front of Irene Adler, because she is vicious and deadly and who knows what sort of information she could give away to all of his enemies). Molly turns to look at him in surprise because all she has been doing is standing there and she doesn't understand what his motive would be. On the inside, he grieves, because why does she think it's only because he has a motive?

But he finds that his mouth is suddenly dry, and he turns to go back to his microscope and his work before she can question him (and he hears John call him a git).

That same night, when everyone is gone, he kisses her on the mouth (it is chaste) in the darkness of the morgue.

And so, a routine is established.

Days go on. During the day, he keeps his teeth gritted as the Woman comes on to him, sometimes playing with his hair, other times giving his ear playful nips, and he tolerates it all even though Molly watches with barely concealed anger. They don't reveal their relationship to anyone. He's told her about Adler and he wants to make sure that Molly's safe, so on the other days when Irene flirts with his pathologist and 'accidentally' fondles her, he turns his eyes to something else and tries to keep quiet.

The night is different.

The nights they spend together, exploring their relationship (which has both of them confused) and sometimes, they wake up in Molly's flat and sometimes it is 221B Baker Street, but wherever it is, no one ever knows (and no one should ever know) and everything is done hush-hush.

The morning that Sherlock wakes up not-a-virgin is the same morning that Molly decides to leave early for work, and it is the same evening that he snogs her thoroughly in front of John Watson (it's not his fault because Sherlock thought that they were alone), and it is the same night that Molly Hooper goes missing.

He almost goes mad with worry and when the Woman very conveniently disappears that same day, he knows exactly whom to blame.

John Watson is there by his side almost immediately, and when he gets there, it's when Sherlock receives the first text (accompanied by a familiar moan) from the Woman. They come in a steady stream.

_Let's have dinner —_The Woman

_I think that I've got something of yours that you might want back —_The Woman

_Oh, she does break so prettily —_The Woman

_Want a photo? —_The Woman

_My, I didn't think that she would look this delicious after I got her clothes off —_The Woman

_I made her moan —_The Woman

_I'll send you a recording when I get her to say my name. Maybe it can be your new ringtone —_The Woman

_Thirty million dollars and protection from whomever I wish. Tell your brother. Then you can have this sweet thing back —_The Woman

* * *

In the end, Sherlock does not find her. It is the police.

Molly called Scotland Yard when Irene Adler went to retrieve her whip.

The consulting detective is floored (because calling the police didn't even occur to him).

Apparently, it didn't occur to Irene Adler either.

* * *

The next time that Sherlock's and Molly's relationship undergoes difficulties, it is because Sherlock has been kidnapped by a deranged fan.

As he struggles to remain lucid (the freak has drugged him and promises to make Sherlock his), he manages to shoot off one text. He means to send it to John but habit makes him send it to Molly, and before he can fix his mistake (he doesn't want her in danger), he has passed out.

_HELP ME, JOHN. 7 Hawkins Drive. Bring a gun. The lunatic is armed with anaesthesia_ —SH

So when he wakes up again to find his kidnapper tied (with rather fancy knots) to a chair, bleeding with a broken nose and passed out from his own drugs, he is shocked to learn that it is Molly Hooper who put him in his place (and she accomplished this alone). She tells him that the ambulance is on the way. So is the police.

"How?" Sherlock finds himself sputtering.

"Martial arts training as a child. My dad taught me how to tie different knots. He was a fisherman. Anaesthesia administration training as a doctor," Molly tells him.

That night, Sherlock asks her to marry him, and he doesn't care what Mycroft says about sentiment. At least he makes Mummy proud.

Fifteen years later, she saves him again, but he never has to save her once.

* * *

**Hope you liked that. It was shorter than the rest but I felt that their story was complete. As always, I take prompts from anyone who has them. If you enjoyed these one-shots, do story alert, because even though this is labelled as complete, I am always updating with new one-shots. And reviews, as they always will be, are appreciated immensely :)**

**I am also happy to inform you that I have a multi-chapter story up now that is a light-hearted fic. (but will get darker) that I think that those who enjoy jealous Sherlock will like. It also includes a mystery and Moriarty's return as well as the third Holmes brother that is mentioned in HLV by Mycroft.**

**Summary:**

When John Watson wakes up this morning, he doesn't expect to meet the third Holmes brother that Mycroft pretended to execute years ago. He doesn't expect this said brother to appear and become infatuated with the pathologist at Bart's. And he certainly doesn't expect to see Sherlock Holmes act like a jealous hormone-driven teenager. Too bad he gets all three with a bloody mystery to boot.

**Excerpt (from John Watson's POV):**

Molly Hooper seems to be caving under the combined pressure of these two _dolts_, and turns to face Sherlock to leave, only to discover that he's ensnared her in the space between the table and himself, as he places his hands on either side of the autopsy bench, creating a cage with his _bloody, inconceivably long arms_.

"Molly," he says, voice deep but dangerously so. He's not smiling. In fact, he looks like he's about to eat her up. John rubs his hands over his eyes. _Oh, God. He's cock-blocking, the imbecile_. It's almost too embarrassing to watch, but John now wonders if Sherlock might not only be _pretending_ to fancy Molly Hooper. Maybe he actually _does_. And of course, the _arse will go through the most unconventional courting methods, the silly, jealous bastard_. John rubs his hands over his eyes again. _He's acting as if Molly is already his, the possessive wanker_.

"Sherlock," Molly says, voice nothing but a whimper. The doctor is surprised. After the last time she slapped Sherlock silly, he expects her to be furious with the consulting detective's drug habits' return, but instead, she's cowering. And then it clicks. Whatever Sherlock Holmes said to make her cry has been enough to keep her frightened for a _bloody month_. John squares his jaw. _When we get home, he's going to get it_, he thinks.

"Molly," Sherlock repeats, and leans in to whisper something. John doesn't miss the way the _git's breathes heavily on her ear, as if his breath is caressing little kisses on the side of her head_, and when he pulls back to stare at the pathologist in front of him, it's almost as if he's _fucking her with his eyes, dear god_. _Where the hell has this new, strange and enigmatic sexuality arisen from within Sherlock Holmes_? John is so preoccupied with this that he doesn't hear what Sherlock has said to Molly Hooper, and it seems that Roy Holmes hasn't heard either because he's still standing there glaring daggers at his younger brother.


End file.
